Small World
by roguetimechild
Summary: After her emotional farewell with the Doctor, Amy is sent back to what is hopefully the same time period Rory was sent to, hoping to be reunited with her husband.


I started this a while back, but it took a while, I guess. We didn't get Amy and Rory's reunion scene, therefore…

(No rights to Doctor Who. BBC, and whatnot.)

* * *

The gesture was romantic and all, but the outcome was yet to be seen.

Amy appeared back in Manhattan, thanks to that horribly inconvenient statue, unsure if she materialized in the same time zone. Their surroundings certainly looked the same. She immediately dragged her hand across her face, clearing her tears, and scanned her immediate surroundings for Rory.

He was nowhere in sight.

Amy held back a wave of panic and trotted across the street to the sidewalk. She skittered up and down it, calling her husband's name, hoping she'd hear her own called back.

Nothing.

The building, she realized. The building might have re-materialized.

Amy weaved through the city, trying to remember the exact location of the weeping angel's nefariously intended structure. She found a street she recognized and bounded to the end of it, where she was positive Winter Quay stood.

An empty lot met her.

Winter Quay never existed. Not in this timeline.

A small sob burst from her and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

She had no money or resources, and now, no River and no Doctor and no Rory, which had kind of been the point.

But the Doctor had warned her. He'd warned her that there was no guarantee that she'd appear in the same time as Rory.

But if she hadn't tried, she didn't know how long the curiosity would eat at her or when she'd have been able to move on.

No regrets.

Content with her choices, she lowered her hand and exhaled slowly, trying to formulate some sort of plan. If she was in the same time as before, it should have been 1938. The Great Depression was still in effect. She could find a shantytown and set up there before it ended.

Amy swaggered along the sidewalk with much less vigor, walking until she saw a small café. A few bulbs flickered inside. A moustached guy manned the counter and one man stared over his mug. Amy pushed open the glass, approaching the counter.

"Hi," she greeted, hearing her voice crack. She sounded as sullen as she felt. "Do you…would you happen to have anything free?"

" You look a mess, sweetheart," the man noticed.

"Thanks," Amy deadpanned. "Charming."

"No offense intended," the man assured her. His accent identified him as American. _Gosh, I live in America now, _Amy mused. "I thought you might want to wash up is all."

Amy wired her fingers through her flaming hair. It didn't exactly feel clean.

"I guess you're right," she admitted. "You got a bathroom?"

"Sure we do," the man gestured with his head toward a wooden door toward Amy's right. "Wait a minute, though. There's some guy in there cleaning himself off. You want a coffee while you wait?"

"I don't have money," Amy admitted, still not talking past the bulb in her throat.

"On the house," the man smiled warmly. "Desperate times."

Amy smiled appreciatively and slid onto one of the stools. As the man prepared the coffee, she buried her head in her hands. She massaged her temples as she tried to orchestrate a more specific plan of action. She wasn't sure whether she should try not to think about Rory to spare her emotions or focus on him for motivation. Basically, she was a mess.

"Here we are," the man slid a mug in front of Amy and started to pour the steaming beverage into. The aroma stimulated her and she lifted her head.

"Thank you," she twitched the corners of her lips unconvincingly.

"No problem."

Amy lifted the mug and held it under her face for a while, but found she didn't think she could stomach the stuff. Instead, she tried to allow the aroma to relax her, which wasn't really a common use for coffee, but nonetheless, she did so.

The bathroom door swung open, but Amy made no move to go toward it. The waiter gave her a kind look. "What is it with you? Lost your job?"

"Husband, actually," Amy informed him with some difficulty.

"That's a shame, hun," the waiter pursed his lips. "Small world."

"Thanks," she said blandly.

"Don't think too much of it," he suggested. "Another person shouldn't define your happiness, even a husband."

"Yeah, I know," Amy agreed distantly. "It's recent, though. Give me time to grieve a bit, huh?"

The waiter nodded understandingly, and something came to Amy.

"What did you mean 'small world'?" Amy asked, finally looking up at him.

"What? Oh!" the waiter recalled. "Guy that just came out of the bathroom was sitting here moping because he lost a wife."

Amy nearly dropped the coffee, and her clumsy grip placed it back onto the counter as she whipped her head back toward the bathroom door. A man stood frozen in her gaze, regarding Amy as though not quite believing what he sees.

"Rory?" she barely breathed.

"Amy?" he said in an identical inflection.

And then she ran at him, and he enveloped her in his arms, resting his face in the crook of her neck. She threw her arms around his neck as his hands tightened around her waist.

"Amy," his muffled voice broke, leftover emotions creeping into his present joy, "what did you do?"

"I let it get me," she said into his ear. "The one that got you."

"Amy, that's idiotic," he reprimanded, but he's laughing. Or crying. One of the two. Maybe both.

Amy leaned back into Rory's arms, keeping her hands locked around his neck as she regarded him. "Not more stupid than going out to admire a gravestone with your name on it," she slapped him on the shoulder, "you idiot."

He laughed breathily. "I'm so glad you're an idiot."

"I'm not glad you are," she chastised, but then she kissed him, and he entangled a hand in her hair, guiding her head as he kisses back.

The waiter looks on, thoroughly confused by how they could have each though the other was dead, but he smiles at the scene, clearing the coffee away.


End file.
